


Monday

by Lunasong365



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Implied Slash, M/M, canon remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3965323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale realises he owes Crowley an apology.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monday

**Author's Note:**

> Almost all scenes and dialogue are adapted from Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, with my added meta and head canon, and a viola joke!

It was the morning after the day after the almost-Last Day and Aziraphale awoke with two realisations. The fact that he awoke _at all_ was one of them. Aziraphale was not in the habit of sleep.  He rolled over and looked at Crowley sprawled beside him, all the tension, worry, pressure, angst (and every other synonymous emotion) of the previous week erased from his slumbering countenance. Crowley slept with what could only be described as total dedication to a physical and mental state of being that totally blocked out extraneous circumstance. Aziraphale sighed fondly as Crowley stirred and clutched even more of the worn tartan blanket around him. 

The second realisation Aziraphale had had upon awakening was:

 _He owed the demon an apology._

***

As Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Aziraphale had been charged with two tasks: to maintain the status quo and to keep subversive elements out of the Garden.

He had failed miserably in both.

As the first drops of rain began to fall, Aziraphale dejectedly huddled under a date-palm tree and pondered his eternal future. Once They’d found out he’d given away the flaming sword as well… 

“Hello,” said Crawly, uncoiling himself from an overhead branch. He dropped down and _smiled_ at Aziraphale as only a serpent could. “Ssstill guarding the Gate, I sssee?” 

“Er, yes; fences and borders, you see, they’re one of our inventions,” Aziraphale replied. “They delineate sides. Either you’re inside the fence and Good, or you’re outside the fence and Bad. There _are_ expected protocols of behaviour, you know. Once you’ve crossed the line, there’s no going back.” Aziraphale gloomily returned to his thought about the missing sword. 

“But, Aziraphale,” responded Crawly smoothly. “ _I’m_ ssstill inside the fence. What doesss that sssay about me?” 

Aziraphale rested his forehead on his folded hands so Crawly couldn't read his expression. Truthfully, just knowing there was an opportunity to _make_ choices had created a shadow of doubt in his mind, but he wasn't going to admit that to the serpent. Best to stick with the party line. He turned his head and looked at Crawly. 

“You’re a demon. It’s impossible for you to be Good.” 

Crawly seemed a bit reassured himself by this statement. 

“Lovely weather we’re having, yeah?” he smirked at the angel, whose sodden wings were starting to look a bit…untidy. “Look how thisss water jussst rolls off my sscaless. I certainly chose the right corporeal form!” 

Then it began to snow.

***

It truly had turned into a birthday party from Hell. Aziraphale’s 19th century magic tricks couldn't hold the attention of Warlock’s 20th century revelers, and worse, Crowley was sniggering at him from behind the buffet table. After the party erupted in waterfire, Aziraphale left in disgust. Crowley met him out in the car park. 

“So, where _is_ the hell hound?” Aziraphale demanded, shaking an expired dove out of the sleeve of his frock coat (luckily, Harry the rabbit had made his escape earlier). Crowley shook his head and picked up the dove. He breathed on it, and watched it fly away before turning to Aziraphale. 

“I don’t know. I _knew_ something wasn't right about that child. Get in the car and we’ll talk about it.” 

***

As Crowley slept on, Aziraphale inwardly cringed as he remembered the rest of the events of last Wednesday. He recalled their conversation in the Bentley about the amazing feeling of love Aziraphale was sensing in Tadfield just before the young lady on the bicycle had hit them. Aziraphale had dismissed Crowley by stating the demon knew nothing about love, and Crowley had just started to respond when he was interrupted by the accident. What was it he was going to say? For some reason this question was now stuck in Aziraphale’s mind like a bad seed from a good currant scone. 

He recalled the excitement he had felt when, after Crowley had stopped at the bookshop to drop him off, he’d read the title of the young lady’s book left behind in Crowley’s car. Crowley, with forced cheerfulness, had twice tried to indicate that he _really_ didn't want to be alone, but Aziraphale had totally ignored Crowley’s subtext in his single-mindedness to delve into studying the book. 

***

Forty-eight hours and one thoroughly congealed cup of slimed-over cocoa later, Aziraphale was debating himself in his mind. He really _should_ call Crowley to reveal what he had determined from the prophecies. The Arrangement meant the two shared all important developments that affected either side; and the date, hour, and location of Armageddon was certainly significant. Moreover, he _wanted_ to call Crowley. Crowley was the being with which Aziraphale felt most comfortable. Crowley was trustworthy. Crowley was loyal and dependable, and understood the importance of a good sushi restaurant or a fine bottle of Bordeaux. Aziraphale’s association with Crowley fulfilled a place in him that Heaven could not. _Heaven,_ inwardly grimaced Aziraphale. _I have to call Heaven. It’s my_ job _to call Heaven._

“Stop it?! STOP IT??!! Why would you want to stop Armageddon? It is _written_ , and _we will win_. We can’t win, though, until we play the war, you know,” reasoned the Metatron. “You will be joining us, of course. We’ll let you play left field,” the voice continued in a snide tone. 

Aziraphale searched his mind for every sports metaphor with which he was familiar, and drew a blank. As the light from the Metatron faded, he vaguely wondered if it was the equivalent of playing last-desk viola. A few minutes later, he had no time to wonder about _anything_ , as he unsuccessfully fought a one-sided battle of reason with Sergeant Shadwell to keep his corporeal form. 

***

 _I wonder,_ thought Aziraphale as he carefully adjusted the blanket around Crowley’s slumbering form, _if anything would have turned out differently if, instead, I’d called Crowley first._ They really had made a muck of the whole affair for the past eleven years, and nothing they had done this week had improved upon that. _The humans stopped it all by themselves,_ Aziraphale reflected. _They really didn't need us messing around._  

As Aziraphale continued to watch Crowley’s regular breathing, he remembered how glad he’d been to see the slightly elevated shuddering, smoking wreck of the Bentley slowly lower to a stop outside the air base gate and Crowley stumble out. Crowley had immediately assumed his typical optimistic demeanor, and recognized Aziraphale incorporated in Madame Tracy’s body. Together again, Aziraphale and Crowley had watched as Adam Young and his friends defeated the four Horsepersons. Then, Adam had re-corporated Aziraphale, much to his relief.

(At this point, the memories were so raw, it was as if Aziraphale was transported back in time.)

Side-by-side the two listened as Adam tried to reason with the Metatron and Beelzebub, and they sensed that Adam, a mere child, was beginning to falter. Aziraphale, inspired by both Adam and Crowley, entered the debate and faced both supernatural beings down, confusing them with their own logic. Crowley, exactly knowing Aziraphale’s line of thought, unhesitatingly joined him until the beings retreated, each to its own side. 

 _He_ knows _me. He knows how I think, he knows when I need support, he knows when I've overlooked something…and there’s something about him I have overlooked for much too long._

Just when they’d thought Armageddon was over, it seemed to be starting up again. In a panic, Crowley desperately tried to shove the gearstick of his commandeered Jeep into reverse. Aziraphale laid a hand on his shoulder. 

 _And I know him._

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “We’re not going to leave. We’re going to stay and see this thing out. Together.” _No more sides._ He picked up his sword, the one from Eden, the one abandoned by War. Crowley joined him, firmly gripping a tyre iron, and hand-in-hand, wingtip-to-wingtip, they walked toward what could only be their destiny. 

***

“You know I came to find you,” said Crowley, offering the last bite of his lemon mousse to the angel. 

“Excuse me?” said Aziraphale. The two were just completing Sunday lunch at the Ritz. After feeding the ducks at the park, there really was no place else they’d rather be. Together. _Two angels dining at the Ritz…_ they were more alike than Aziraphale had ever given Crowley credit. 

“At the bookshop. As soon as I’d…er…gotten rid of my _old friend._ The shop was full of flames, completely blazing. It reminded me of…” Crowley stopped for a moment, a shadow crossing his face, then continued. “Well, anyway. I ran in there looking for you. There were all these people standing around outside and no one knew where you were, so I ran in to find you. It was awful. I got hit by a water jet, and then the building collapsed around me. But I found the book, the one the young lady had left in my car. I knew it was important to you, so I picked it up and ran back out. I found the notes you had written and understood what was up. Even if you weren't around, there was still something I might be able to do to stop Armageddon. So I came to Tadfield. From flaming bookshop to flaming Bentley. Nice touch, yeah?” The demon grinned, a bit of his old insouciance returning. 

With horror, Aziraphale realized that Crowley had waited _two days_ to hear from the angel, and had come as soon as he could after Aziraphale had finally called him. Two days, of Crowley not knowing what Aziraphale was discovering, of Crowley not knowing what fate Hell had planned for him, of Crowley sitting idle with his thoughts whilst he knew the Antichrist was on Earth untended and he had royally mucked it all up… 

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured. “You came to me for help.” 

“And _to_ help,” Crowley added. “I wasn't in this alone. Neither were you.” 

“No,” replied Aziraphale. “We were in it together. We always were.” 

They sat for a moment, quiet with their thoughts. 

“How,” began Aziraphale, “can I ever make it up to you?” 

“Well,” responded Crowley. “I really don’t want to be alone tonight.” His yellow eyes positively _glowed_ as he tilted his head to look at Aziraphale from over his sunglasses. “Can I come over?” 

Aziraphale smiled with genuine delight at his friend. “Who am I to refuse?” 

***

Crowley stretched and yawned and opened his eyes, then started at his unfamiliar surroundings. He glanced around quickly, then somewhat reassured, turned over to face Aziraphale. He’d rarely been in the upstairs room of the bookshop, and certainly _never_ in this position. Aziraphale, seated cross-legged beside him and suddenly self-conscious, gave him a tentative smile. 

“So,” the angel began. 

“So,” echoed the demon. _Oh Go--, He--, what have I done now_ , he thought. Crowley _knew_ what he had done, and it couldn't be undone. He waited for the inevitable smiting. 

“Crowley, I owe you an apology. Ever since Eden, I've seen us as being on opposite Sides. You wile, I thwart. You were Evil and I was Good. I flatly stated you couldn't understand a concept like love, that you were incapable of love. All along, though, I was judgmental and unfair. Deep inside, I always knew there was a spark of goodness in you; I just couldn't admit it to myself because it didn't make sense with what I understood of Heaven and Hell and the world. I was following the party line, and not making choices for myself. What you've shown me these past days is that we’re not opposites. We’re complementary. Two sides of a whole, if you will.” 

Crowley slyly grinned. “What you've shown me these past few days is what a complete and utter _bastard_ you can be, angel. I _like_ it!” 

Aziraphale sighed. “Er. Yes. Well.” He was starting to lose his train of thought whilst looking at Crowley’s sleepy eyes and tousled bed hair, and his new-found realisations were forcing that train toward a derailment. He hesitantly continued, “What I’m trying to say, Crowley, is I’m sorry. I know you’re capable of love. Maybe it was me who truly wasn't. But I know I can now. You've shown me how.” 

Crowley sat up and tentatively took Aziraphale’s hands in his. “Angel,” he said. “we are. Two sides of a whole, that is. And yes, I am capable of love.” He impulsively reached out to brush an errant curl away from Aziraphale’s face. 

Aziraphale caught his hand and held it close to his cheek. “Crowley—that night we were driving through Tadfield. The night the young lady hit us with her bike. We were talking about love then. What was it you were going to say?” 

Crowley thought for just a moment, then winked. 

“Bake me some of those good currant scones for breakfast,” he replied, “and I'll _show_ you.”


End file.
